


My Heart's in Atrophy

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, So here we are, spoilers for episodes of 10 & 11, they gave me a lot of feelings and a need for hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew he was poison to other people. It was the first - maybe the only important - lesson his father ever taught him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart's in Atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is my first foray into the Constantine fandom (which my friend and I are hopelessly hooked on). And it won't be the last - classes, homework and small but existing social life notwithstanding. The title is taken from the song Sedated by Hozier, which is amazing, everyone should go listen as it basically set the mood for this one-shot.
> 
> Also, a shout out to the authors that have already contributed on this site, as well as the fans and artists on tumblr - it was you, along with a Neil Gaiman quote and Matt Ryan's stellar John Constantine characterization, that inspired this piece. So please enjoy it in all its angsty (slightly fluffy) glory!
> 
> Disclaimer: Not even my mind at its worst could conjure up the stuff of Hellblazer. And that's saying something.

John awoke to the same dull hospital ceiling he had fallen asleep to.

Beside of him, Zed lay utterly still, apparently sound asleep. He supposed it must’ve been pretty late, as there were no well-meaning nurses puttering about the room, nor puzzled doctors bustling through the corridors. With the coma epidemic subdued, the numerous victims once swarming the halls had vanished, leaving the night in a drowsy, relief-textured lull.

In fact, the only sound in the room was the tempo of the heart monitor, slow and steady in its pace. Yawning, John attempted to shift into a more comfortable position without slipping from the bed or waking its other occupant. Hospitals had always unnerved him; maybe it was the desperation, the despair, or the smell of science and antiseptic. If not for the pent up exhaustion that let itself loose in the aftermath of saving Geraldine, beating Faust and losing Chas all in the same breath, he doubted he would’ve drifted off so easily before.

As he moved his arm from its spot above his head, a hand gripped his wrist, squeezing with just enough pressure to garner his attention. _Maybe not so soundly asleep,_ John thought, turning to make a remark about Zed not being to keep her hands away from him while they were in bed.

The face that met his wasn’t Zed’s, though – it belonged to someone else, someone he knew without ever having known, a face that was half formed by his imagination, half remembered from a photograph that he once kept beneath a loose floor board in his bedroom, hidden from his father’s bloodshot eyes.

 _“John,”_ she said in a voice that wasn’t a real voice; merely a figment of what John believed she might sound like but would never be able to verify. The soft chime of it, coming from a solid creature of flesh and blood, filled him with such beautiful, dreadful hope.

 _“Mom.”_ The name left his lips unbidden, cracking at the edges.

 _“John,”_ she said again, and he could sense by her tone that she was trying to show him something. Helpless to deny her anything, desperate to please this phantom of maternal love, John did as bade and for the first time since opening his eyes, truly looked at her, all of her.

And there was blood, blood _everywhere_ – between her legs, staining the sheets, the hospital gown. All over John’s shirt, his arms, his hands; the hands of a murderer, bright crimson, sticky and wet because he _was_ a murderer, a life-taker, a thief in the worst of ways. He knew it, Dad had known it; and she knew it, too.

 _“Why, John?”_ she asked in that haunting faux-voice, and even now it wasn’t accusing, wasn’t angry or hateful; which was worse, somehow, worse because John didn’t deserve kindness, not when he was the cause of her demise.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to repent, to explain that he hadn’t _meant to_ and he would do anything to go back and change it, stop it if he could. But all that emerged was a raw, pitiful noise from the back of his throat. A birth cry, he realized, torn from his lungs as he ripped her apart on his way into the world–

John awoke on the tail-end of the muted scream, sweat-soaked and trembling.

The ceiling was not that of a hospital because he and Zed had arrived home from Brooklyn days ago. Mind dizzy and pulse racing, he looked around, but there were no cold fingers clutching his wrists, no blood-soaked sheets beneath him. Just him, alone in the dark, with only his nightmares for company – which wasn’t a rare occurrence in the life of John Constantine.

 _That’s what I get for sleeping. When will I learn?_ Sitting up with a groan, John reached for the nightstand in a blind search for a pack of Silk Cuts that should’ve been by his ashtray. He frowned when his fingers found neither. Only then did he belatedly realize that he hadn’t retired to _his_ room before passing out, but somewhere else entirely.

Chas’s room, to be exact.

Ignoring the pinch in his gut, John forced himself to his feet. He would rather swallow his tongue than admit it aloud, but when he was left to his own devices and the nightmares were walking everywhere he turned, John often chose to sleep in Chas’s in lieu of his own. The smell of him lingered on the bed, musky and woodsy and safe, giving him an ounce of comfort to last through the long nights.

It was mind-boggling contrast, missing someone you knew was better off without you – always this ugly mixture of guilt and yearning. Strange as it was, John was no stranger to the feeling, as he had somewhat of a nasty habit of losing the people he was close to.

Speaking of which – if he was going to brood, the least he could do was move it somewhere else, and not let his dark aura sour the sanctity of his mate’s space. Even he had standards.

Like a proper lonesome bastard, John would drown his sorrows in alcohol with the reflection of his old friend, Gary Lester. He might not have contributed to his divorce or estrangement of his family, but he certainly hadn’t done him any favors, either.

A half-finished bottle of whiskey was where he’d left it on the coffee table. John poured himself a fresh glass, savoring the burn as it ran down his throat.

He soon reached the bottom of that bottle, and was already delving into another, sick with the silence that spread around him like an epidemic. No amount of alcohol could seem to fill the aching, gaping hole inside of him. Come to think of it, that was one of the favroite lines the psychiartists at Ravenscar loved to preach: Drugs and alcohol and the like, they weren’t permanent solutions, and therefore not worth the trouble.

John always rolled his eyes at the familiar spiel because, as any miserable tosser understood, _that wasn’t the point._ It was a temporary reprieve at best, a spoonful of placebo to take the edge off. It wasn’t about finding a cure for what ailed them; it was about finding the mixture that would make living with what they’d _seen,_ what they’d _done_ and what they _knew_ bearable enough to manage.

How had Ritchie put it? It was _sedation,_ or rather, self-medication in his case.

Ritchie. Now Ritchie was a fighter, albeit not an obvious one; but evident when he chose the struggle of reality over the Garden of Eden he could’ve created with his mind, and while John was loathed to lose another friend he wouldn’t have blamed him for staying. Running away was one of John’s favorite forms of dealing with his problems, after all.

Not like he’d had any prime role models for that sort of thing growing up. Thomas Constantine was never one to sit at home empty-handed, and when your father was as mean a drunk as he was, running away seemed the best option.

 _To my dear ol’ Dad,_ John mused with the same unpleasant nostalgia that he always associated with his father, _who saw it coming long before I did. Remember all the times you basically told me I was a worthless lil' blighter, nothing but trouble and no-good for anyone? Well, you were right. Cheers._

Funnily enough, ruminating on your drunk of a father had a way of lessening the appeal of alcohol. Abandoning his glass, John sunk into the couch, glancing at the mirror overhead. There sat Gary, strung out from withdrawal, skin probably crawling for the familiar itch of a needle sting. Ironically, the worst juice Gary ever got hooked on was John fucking Constantine, dabbler in the dark arts and conman extraordinaire.

See, John was a special brand of poison, slow-acting but lethal. The kind that was _like_ a drug, drawing people in with the promise of thrills, only to let them down when it really mattered. Infected almost everyone he came in contact with – to the point that unless you were blessed with some inhuman ability or an uncanny resistance to death, your only choice was to run away.

(Sometimes, on nights like this, he wondered. Wondered what would happen when Chas ran out of lives, when Zed mastered her psychic abilities and didn’t need him to hold her hand anymore, when Manny no longer required his help in defeating the Rising Darkness. He sat, he sipped and he wondered)

Yet even though he knew the potency of his poison – had known since he was old enough to recognize the resentful glint in his father’s eyes and young enough to believe it might someday fade – he could no more stop from seeking the company of others than he could walk away from his world of magic, delight and damnation.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the empty room at large, not knowing who was listening – Mum, Gary, or maybe just Manny again, watching to ensure his investment didn’t choke on his own vomit. That was all he was good for these days, fighting the rising dark. And even then he had a habit of mucking things up, didn’t he?

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and the saddest fucking part was that he genuinely meant it, with all of his bleeding heart.

Unfortunately, and like always, the apology came too late.

.

.

.

.

There millhouse was draped in an eerie stillness when Chas got in, muscles strained and eyes heavy-lidded from the long drive.

“John?” he called, disturbed by the lack of response. Silence was never a good sign, especially in a place that held more supernatural dangers than it did wonders. “Zed?”

Wary now, he set his bag by the door to investigate. In theory, Zed could be at home recovering, but there should definitely be an exorcist lurking around. “John!”

“Mm?” he heard as he neared the living room, low and barely audible. Chas immediately went to the couch, where the sight of his friend curled up, half-dressed and certainly not sober greeted him.

Red-rimmed eyes squinted up at him, the picture of drunken disorientation. “Bloody ‘ell, Chas, is that you?”

“Who were you expecting?” he asked wryly.

“Wasn’t sure you were – when you were coming back.” John shook his head dismissively. “Ne’er mind.”

Chas frowned. “You could’ve called,” he reminded lightly, while eyeing the empty bottles littering the table, “but I see you’ve been otherwise occupied.”

Understatement of the century, if the way John struggled to right himself was any indication.

“Have you eaten anything solid in the last twenty four hours?” Chas demanded, feeling every bit the long-suffering babysitter he was forced to play most days.

“If I did, it’s not in me anymore,” John replied, grimacing. Hopeless idiot, thought Chas, sighing as he brushed a strand of blonde hair away from his forehead. But my hopeless idiot.

Forehead felt a bit warm, too; and he was obviously flushed, probably due to a combination of dehydration and alcohol consumption. Wonderful. Hopefully Chas could get some fluids and food in him before he became seriously ill.

“Alright. Up you get,” he announced, patting John’s knee. “Pity party’s over.”

Predictably, John sulked like a petulant child. “Don’t need ya t’ look aft’r me.”

“So you say. Yet your astoundingly self-destructive behavior says otherwise.”

“Yeah,” John snickered. “Can’t argue that one. ’m a mess. A huge fuck-up. The hugest up that ever fucked. Oi!” he cried, laughter ceasing when Chas hefted him into his arms like he was a five pound sack of nothing. “Where’re we going?”

“Bedroom,” said Chas simply, noticing for not the first time how easy it was to swing John into his arms, skinny as he was.

“M’kay,” was the slurred response. He must’ve been really out of it to comply without complaint or an innuendo. “See ya, Gaz,” John breathed against his shoulder, and Chas felt his heart drop at the mention of Gary Lester, already having some idea of what had spurred his friend’s latest bender.

Ignoring it for now, he kept walking until they reached his bedroom (because leaving John alone in this state was never an option, no matter how much of an idiot he was). He distinctly recalled making the bed before he left, yet didn’t comment on its state of disarray, filing that information away for a later date. The object at hand was to take care of John, a task he had so much practice in it was like second nature.

He left John to fetch a bottle of water, a cup of tea, and whatever he might be able to keep down: crackers, dry toast, etc. John glared blankly at the food, only daring to take a bite when Chas pressed him. The tea and water went down easier, and while he finished, Chas chucked off his shoes and changed into comfier clothing.

They went through the familiar motions in a companionable silence, until out of the blue John told him, “Ritchie was here, too. Yesterday.”

“Ritchie Simpson?” Chas questioned, because according to John, the professor hadn’t wanted anything more to do with his old friend after the business with Liv.

John nodded. “Almost thought he’d leave me, too, and stay in his shiny new reality. But then he came back. So I don’t have to see him in the mirror. At least Gaz wouldn’t be so alone, the poor sod.”

“I think you’ve been keeping him good company lately,” said Chas quietly.

“You should go,” John continued, as if he hadn’t heard him speak. “'fore the poison gets you, too.”

Chas frowned bewilderedly. He had known John for a long time, knew things about him that would make most people balk, and even he couldn't comprehend a word of what he was saying. An inebriated John was incredibly pliant, earnest to a fault; the trick was deciphering his muddled responses and fitting them into the puzzle of conversation.

“I mean, you are big and strong and noble. Like a bloody knight,” he reasoned using fool-proof, drunken logic. “So that’s probably why it hasn’t yet. But it will.” The last part was spoken with such somberness it rang like a moment of clarity, sharp and regretful.

“John, you’re making less sense than usual.” _Which is saying a lot._ “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The smaller man laughed at his confusion, reaching at the lines of marring Chas's brow, fingers not quite reaching high enough to smooth them out.

“S’me,” he whispered, soft and serious again. _“I’m_ the poison.”

Even three sheets to the wind, John sounded so matter-of-fact, so resigned to the idea of him being nothing but a danger – a poison – to anyone who came into contact with him.

“Just like he said.”

“John…”

“She said it wasn’t my fault,” he plodded on, the lines in his brow deepening. “Zed said _she_ said… But it has to be, it always _has._ And Gary, that was on me. It was.”

“Hey,” snapped Chas, sterner than he intended. Though it had the desired effect: John’s mouth clamped shut, putting an end to his self-depreciating babble. “That’s enough now.”

“M’sorry,” he mumbled wretchedly.

“Shh,” Chas hushed, running a hand through his messy blond hair. John leaned into the touch like a thirsty man to fresh water, and then flinched back, as if having realized he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to. It made Chas ache in a way he’d rather not acknowledge. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t,” John grunted, yet didn’t struggle as Chas urged him to lie down on his back.

“Tough,” stated Chas. “I’m here and I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon. And if there’s any ghosts dumb enough to think they can get past me, they’re in for a rude awakening.”

It was a cheesy line, but worth it to see John’s lopsided grin. “Noble bloody knight,” he chuckled, winding his arms around Chas as he got into bed, pressing a sloppy kiss to his chin.

“That’s right,” he humored, resting his head atop John's unwashed hair, which smelled faintly of smoke. “Now _sleep.”_

Eventually, John’s shuddering breaths evened out, and he drifted into a – well, if not peaceful, then a sedated state of mind. Chas lay awake a while longer, pondering all that had happened before deciding it wasn't worth it at this hour. So he wound an arm around John’s chest, pulled him close, and slept.

.

.

.

.

Later, in the early darkness of the morning, John stirred. Only half emerged, grappling for a life preserver in a sea of restless sleep, a hand grasped at the arm wrapped around a thin waist.

 _“_ _Chas,”_ he gasped, still in that state between dream and reality where the line separating them was frighteningly unclear, where demons and dead friends had free reign, and where a single name became both a plea and a question.

“I’m here,” Chas assured, a promise and an answer. The words were muffled against the nape of John’s neck, but he heard what he meant all the same.

_I’m not going anywhere._

.

.

.

.

_When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn't make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. "It's all right" we whisper, "I'm here, I love you." and we lie: "I'll never leave you." For just a moment or two the darkness doesn't seem so bad - Neil Gaiman_


End file.
